


Excessive Gentleness

by Owlix



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Autobot culture, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Decepticon culture, Fluff, Gentleness, Kissing, Light Masochism, M/M, alt-mode intimacy, gun maintenance, masochist Megatron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4622814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlix/pseuds/Owlix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fics inspired by this theme:</p>
<p>Among Decepticons, excessive gentleness in the wrong context can be a sign of disrespect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Megatron/Optimus Prime

Optimus’ touch was gentle. Coming from a Decepticon it would’ve been an insult. But Optimus was not a ‘con, and Megatron knew him too well to misread his intentions.

 _Look how careful I am with you_ , Optimus was saying with those wide brilliant optics fixed on Megatron’s face and those light brushes of fingertips against his armor. _Look how precious you are to me. Look how unwilling I am to harm you._

Megatron could barely feel his touch - the heat of Optimus’ frame and the thick texture of his electromagnetic interference subsumed the faint sensation of physical contact. Megatron had been built for mining and altered for battle - gentleness did nothing for him. He snarled his engine, bared his teeth, and pushed aggressively into Optimus’ hand.

Optimus didn’t understand. He pulled back as Megatron pushed forward, keeping his touch delicate and faint.

Words were apparently necessary. “Harder,” Megatron said, keeping his voice a low growl; they were very close, taking in air that had passed through each others’ cooling systems. No need for raised voices.

Optimus kept watching his face. Megatron recognized that expression. He’d seen it thousands of times, although usually half-hidden by a faceplate. This was a delicate and tenuous situation; Optimus was calculating risk. After a moment’s hesitation, Optimus came to a decision. The pressure from his hand grew steadier, heavy enough that Megatron could feel his fingertips solidly against his metal plate.

“Not hard enough,” Megatron said. He pushed into it again.

Optimus started to pull away, to ease up on the pressure, then abruptly changed his mind and held his ground. His expression shifted, and once again Megatron was reminded why Optimus wore the faceplate; he was so easy to read without it.

“Megatron,” Optimus said. “I–”

“You know me,” Megatron said. “You know how much it takes to hurt me.”

“I–” Pain flashed across Optimus’ face, brief but unmistakable, ridiculous but undeniably sincere. “Yes,” Optimus said, suddenly somber. “I do.”

“So  _hurt me_ ,” Megatron said, through clenched teeth.

Optimus’ optics flickered down and away. His hands clenched and eased.

This would never work. There was no common ground for them to meet on. Neither of them could bend far enough to touch. It was a fact that both of them already knew. Megatron pulled away, or tried to, but Optimus’ grip caught and held him, fingers digging into his armor, just on the edge of pain.

Megatron’s engine rumbled in response despite himself. He let Optimus hold him still, with strong, familiar hands.

“Good,” Megatron said. “ _Harder_.”

He didn’t think Optimus would listen. But Optimus’ blunt fingertips pushed under armor seams, gripping hard enough to  _hurt_. Hard enough that Megatron could really  _feel_ it. Not as much as he wanted, but closer.

It was more compromise than Megatron had expected to get. And Optimus’ tactical instincts were good ones, as they often were - this was a delicate situation. It required negotiation. Concession and moderation weren’t things Megatron was good at, but when the situation called for them… He could use what tactics were necessary. He would try, for the sake of this.

So when he kissed Optimus, it was gentle. Gentle enough to cause offense, if Optimus had been someone in Megatron’s own faction.

But he was not. Optimus’ lips parted and he moaned, fingers tightening harder on Megatron’s frame.

Together, they strove for common ground.


	2. Misfire/Fulcrum

 Fulcrum knew how this should go.

At least, he’d  _thought_ he knew.

He was a K-Class, after all, and even if he’d been an unwilling rebuild, it was still written all over the lines of his frame. K-Class ‘cons were known for being forceful and seizing the moment, not for taking things slow, and definitely not for gentleness. Anyone looking at him would… well,  _expect_ certain things. And Misfire was a fighter jet, a member of the Decepticon Aerial Division, dangerously impulsive beyond even the stereotypes of his alt. He moved fast even when he  _wasn’t_ under the influence of some questionable stimulant.

Yeah, Fulcrum knew how this should play out, and it wasn’t like this.

Misfire flopped down next to him on the salvaged couch in the W.A.P.’s saloon and shamelessly shuffled up close. He was humming to himself as he pushed in close, unabashedly affectionate. It was…

Well, it was exactly the sort of display of affection that your average ‘con was uncomfortable with. In public, especially, or with someone they didn’t know that well. It was too easy to accidentally insult, to imply weakness by being overly gentle. It was too easy to signal weakness to others by tolerating such inappropriate gentleness. Treacherous territory to navigate, if it should be explored at all. Fulcrum prickled with the unfamiliarity of it all. It wasn’t bad, exactly. No, it wasn’t bad at all. He just didn’t want to misstep.

“What is this about?” Fulcrum finally blurted out.

“The movie? Oh, it’s great, you’re gonna love it. There’s this one guy, right? Who’s an outlaw, but he’s trying to change his ways. But then!” Misfire gestured wildly, accidentally smacking Fulcrum in the arm due to their closeness. He didn’t seem to notice. “His old friends drag him in for  _one last heist_ , and–”

Fulcrum cut him off before he could really get going. “No, not the movie,” he said. “I mean, well…” He gestured at the lack of space between them. “ _This_.”

“Oh.” Misfire seemed confused by the question. “It’s because I like you.”

Because that clarified things perfectly. Fulcrum pressed on, hoping beyond reason that he’d get a real answer this time. “Don’t you think you’re being a little–”

Misfire smiled at him - pure obliviousness, probably not listening at all, just waiting for Fulcrum to finish talking so they could get to the movie already. Fulcrum sighed.

“You know what, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“‘Kay.” Misfire shifted back on the chair, pushing his wing up uncomfortably behind Fulcrum’s back and settling himself in even closer.

The movie was awful, which was expected - Misfire had picked it out, after all, and his taste wasn’t exactly sophisticated. But Misfire was warm and comforting against Fulcrum’s frame, his electromagnetic field relaxed and pleasant as it pushed against Fulcrum’s circuitry. He threw an arm over Fulcrum’s shoulders and snuggled in closer, fingers absently tracing fidgety patterns along Fulcrum’s shoulder kibble.

The first few times one of the other crew members walked through the saloon behind them, Fulcrum cringed. But no one said anything. No one even seemed to notice.

After a while, Fulcrum stopped worrying any more. He relaxed. Misfire’s warmth and closeness and gentle, absent fingers on his plating became far more interesting than the movie.

Yeah, Fulcrum had no idea how this would play out, but he wasn’t complaining.


	3. Megatron and Starscream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set after Hell's Point, while Megatron was stuck in gun mode.

The door hissed open, then shut again. No one spoke. Megatron couldn’t turn to see who had entered.

Couldn’t do much of anything, in fact. He’d been trapped in alt-mode for weeks, bored and paralyzed and miserable. And in pain, not that it was enough to faze him. The pain was nothing compared to the lack of control.

Whoever had come into the room moved closer. Megatron recognized those footsteps, even if he couldn’t turn to look.

“Starscream,” he said.

His second in command didn’t answer. He paused, close enough that Megatron could feel the faint, tickling edges of his familiar electromagnetic interference.

It occurred to Megatron that maybe he would die like this. He wasn’t afraid - any fear of death had been beaten out of him long before he’d even left the mines - but the idea of dying without a fight was distasteful.

Megatron couldn’t aim, but he could still fire. If a shot presented itself, he would take it.

Starscream shut the medical machines off, one by one, soft clicks and beeps as they whirred and powered down. Turned off, there would be no alarms when Megatron’s vital signs ceased. There would be no easy way to execute Megatron in this alt - no clear head or spark shot, and he was still heavily armored. It would take more than one shot, even at point-blank range. Messy. Megatron steeled himself for it.

“I guessed you’d do it someday,” Megatron said, “but not like this.”

Starscream laughed. His fingertips brushed Megatron’s plating as he unplugged the spark and fuel monitors, the nanite drip, the feeding tube. It felt good to be free of them. Maybe Megatron would die helpless, but at least he would die unfettered.

Starscream lifted him from the medical berth. His touch was gentler than Megatron had anticipated. Gentler, perhaps, than Megatron had thought him capable of. Starscream held Megatron in one hand, cradled as if to fire. The curve of that hand fit Megatron’s grip perfectly. By design -- Starscream _was_ Megatron’s second. It was only natural that he should fire him.

Starscream ran his free hand up Megatron’s barrel. Contrasted with the haze of mild pain and pervasive boredom, the sensation was near-overwhelming. Megatron would’ve shuddered if he could. But even that was beyond him right now.

Starscream _tsk_ ed. “You’re filthy,” he said, running a fingertip down a groove in Megatron’s barrel. “What is your medical staff _doing_? Firearms should always be kept clean.”

“We aren’t all as vain as you, Starscream.”

Starscream snorted. “It isn’t about vanity. A well maintained paint job reduces drag, and a jet engine is a precision instrument. And now, so are you.”

Megatron hated to admit it to himself, but Starscream was probably had a point.

The truth was, Megatron didn’t much like being handled. Not like _this_ \- weakened and immobile, stuck in alt-mode and near-paralyzed due to his damaged t-cog. It brought back bad memories of another medical bay, of a different sort of restraint.

Megatron had made his preferences clear early on. The medics now refrained from all non-necessary handling.

Starscream apparently wasn’t giving him that option. Megatron recognized the soft hiss and click of a familiar subspace container being opened. He was shifted against Starscream’s palm as Starscream sat on the small medical berth. A soft cloth descended on him, drifting in and out of his field of vision as Starscream cleaned his barrel.

Megatron hadn’t felt touch without pain since he’d woken after Hell’s Point. It was so far from what he’d grown used to - so far from what he’d expected when his second had walked into the medibay - that Megatron was briefly struck dumb.

Starscream kept cleaning, utterly absorbed in his task. He traded the cloth for a small brush spritzed with solvent. Carefully, he worked the dirt from in between transformation seams and moving parts and the grooves on Megatron’s barrel.

Excessive gentleness was one disrespect Starscream had never shown him. Perhaps the only one. It didn’t suit either of them. Starscream wouldn’t have given it, and Megatron wouldn’t allow it.

Gentleness with a purpose, though… Megatron was surprised to find it tolerable. More than tolerable. It felt good to be clean. And Starscream was good at it, gentle and firm and thorough.

Starscream tilted Megatron up and back, preparing to clean the inside of his barrel. A shot presented itself, just briefly.

Megatron declined to take it.


End file.
